


Morning, Noon and Night

by The_Magical_Crawdad



Category: Homestuck, Intermission - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-14
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 14:55:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Magical_Crawdad/pseuds/The_Magical_Crawdad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Diamonds Droog in no uncertain terms does not do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning, Noon and Night

In the morning, when he's having breakfast with his daughter, he ignores the knife set before him. He does not eat, simply smokes a single cigarette with his single coffee (black, no sugar). He certainly does not lift the knife from where it sits and puts out his daughters eyes. He makes small talk over his paper, clouds the instinct that runs hot and heavy in his veins. He waits for her at the door, and lights a second cigarette when he drops her off at school. He does not smile, he never does, but she doesn't expect him too. He lets her know he'll be late, she says she will make pasta for dinner. He leaves her behind, but the desire follows.

He smokes a third cigarette when he gets in, ignores the tightness in his throat. He sets right to work, because heists never plan themselves, and it gives him something to occupy his mind with. Deuce tries to help, and pained irritation makes Droog taste acid as he carefully ignores how brittle the bones in Deuce’s neck are. He fills the expectant silence with something, bland and as neutral as a beige wall in an ocean of beige. Deuce storms the air between them with stories, distractions for Droog to sink into. Eventually the urge to crack Deuce's ribs doesn't seem so interesting any more.

He finds himself calculating how much force he'd have to exert to crush Boxcar's head by the time the day goes south. He catches himself staring at the length of rebar the larger man is currently using as his weapon, thinks briefly about how easy it would be to take it away. He turns his attention back to what he should be doing, and nods sharply to Boxcars. He adjusts his grip on the gun in his hands and lays down cover fire, because Boxcars trusts him when lead hits the fan. The smell of smoke masks the scent of blood, but only just.

He keeps control of himself as he strides in after Boxcars, cue stick cracking viciously into the knee of a nearby green torso. He stabs into the kidney next, then lays a heavy swing across the throat as Eggs (Biscuits?) goes down. He doesn't get back up. It takes three more steps to get to the next target, but only two swings to kill. His movements are economic, he wastes no energy. Every strike does no less than maim, because this is the Felt and if you don't take them down first you won't have the time to.

He’s been shot. It registers very faintly at the edge of his attention, and the irritation is less about actually being shot and far more about the suit that’s just been ruined. Droog grits his teeth, but it is very hard to ignore the comforting weight that is the mad crest of fury coiling up inside his head. He almost succeeds, but a second shot rings out and he can hear Boxcar’s pained grunt as clear as day. The cue stick in his hands is suddenly very, very light. The dust in the air leaves a rippling wake as he lashes out, and the snap of bones is like thunder. He does it again, as if testing, and is grimly satisfied when the same thing happens.

He is possessed by cold interest, not the white hot rage that fuels Slick. He is almost disappointed that it’s all so easy, almost disappointed that no-one can seem to keep up. He even gets the drop on Itchy, but that is not very much of an accomplishment when you consider you can distract Itchy with a paper bag and some very shiny rocks. Amused, then, he reminds himself to try the same thing with Deuce. Absorbed in his thoughts he misses Slick until it’s almost too late, corrects his overhead swing and manages to turn it into a knee-shattering low sweep that brings Cans to the floor. That seems to be the last of them, he thinks to himself as Boxcars puts the big green asshole out of his misery.   
Slick hands him a lit cigarette and he takes it, smoking it calmly as Deuce sets some charges in the heavy safe door. The desire to lean forward and open Slick’s throat with a knife barely even registers at all.

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK AM I DOING GUYS?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Two Reasons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/314328) by [varietyshow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/varietyshow/pseuds/varietyshow)




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